


turn my face against the wind

by SiriCerasi



Category: Haven - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Child Loss, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiriCerasi/pseuds/SiriCerasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire tugs his vest off, rougher than necessary, and Dwight tries not to wince. It’s what she wants, he knows; some acknowledgment of pain. Some concession to weakness, to human mortality, to a fear he no longer feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn my face against the wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DJ_Rocca_87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJ_Rocca_87/gifts).



> **Spoilers** : None  
>  **Warnings** : Mild injury description, past death of a child  
>  **A/N** : Yay, last minute fills! Also a fill for my **hc-bingo** prompt "caught in a robber".
> 
> Song is [Still Alive](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_1xyCOE8fNQ) by Lisa Miskovsky.

_your concrete heart isn't beating_   
_and i've tried to make it come alive_   
_no shadows, just red lights_   
_now i'm here to rescue you_   
  
_so silent, no violence_   
_but inside my head, so loud and clear_   
_you're screaming, you're screaming_   
_covered up with a smile i've learned to fear_

**xxx**

It’s not until everyone is safe, the (potential) robber in cuffs and the girl he’d held hostage wrapped in her mother’s arms, that Dwight lets himself consider his own wellbeing. His ribs are starting to ache fiercely, and he knows one of the bullets in his vest must’ve at least bruised a rib.

He doesn’t even consider the hospital; he’s had enough bruised, fractured and broken body parts to last him several lifetimes, and he knows this isn’t serious. He’s halfway to Claire’s house before he even knows he’s driving, contemplates turning around for home before resigning himself to an evening of her lecturing. He’s too weary to treat his own wounds, too apathetic to really care, but a small part of him knows that he should.

She opens the door at his knock, eyes raking him up and down with an almost angry expression, and he wonders not for the first time if she’s not Troubled, if she can’t read his thoughts. He follows her wordlessly inside, settles on her couch while she grabs a first aid kit, her actions practiced and worn.

Claire tugs his vest off, rougher than necessary, and Dwight tries not to wince. It’s what she wants, he knows; some acknowledgment of pain. Some concession to weakness, to human mortality, to a fear he no longer feels.

She hisses at the bruising under his vest, his entire chest practically one massive purple blotch. “Dammit, Dwight,” she berates, anger effectively negated as her voice breaks. And he should feel some guilt at that, some remorse for causing her worry on top of her already stressful life, but the contrition won’t come. He’d saved lives today, and that’s something he’ll never regret.

So he shrugs, breath catching sharply as probably-cracked ribs make themselves known.

“Had worse.” She just stares at him for a moment, mouth frozen half-open, anger and concern warring on her face, stopping her dead. He takes some strange satisfaction at that – silencing Claire Callahan is certainly no easy feat. Still, when he grabs for tube of arnica gel she swats at him, snaps, “Give me that.”

Her touch is no gentler than before, and when she hits a definite crack in bone he finally yelps, biting his tongue. And it’s like all her fire drains with that small sound, shoulders slumping as she carefully probes the tender area.

“Probably cracked,” she says shortly. Wearily. “Let me get some ice.”

When she returns she doesn’t speak for several minutes, lips pressed in a thin line as she begins bandaging his chest. The silence stretches, and he’d think she was using some shrink trick on him if her forehead wasn’t so creased, if her eyes weren’t so dark and far away.

Eventually, when Dwight’s about to crack, she states. “You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days.” She doesn’t raise her eyes from his chest, and her hands don’t stop their even wrapping, but he can hear the ache in her voice. The pleading. And he doesn’t want to say the words but they slip out anyway.

“We all die someday.”

He waits for the slap, the anger, the lecture on the importance of his life and how much he has to live for. And waits, and waits, and finally looks up to find her frozen. Defeated.

It breaks him like nothing else could.

He reaches up slowly to touch her cheek, hating the ache in his chest as she flinches away. So much more painful than bruised and broken bones could ever be. “I’m sorry,” he tells her softly. “I’m sorry, Claire. I wasn’t thinking.”

“And this?” Her voice is a trembling, broken thing he hardly recognizes. She gestures at his bandaging, at the vest beside him, chokes, “Were you thinking about this?”

Dwight closes his eyes, drops his hand. He can practically feel the tension vibrating from her, the effort it’s taking for her to just stay. To sit in silence. Finally, he answers quietly, “There was a little girl.”

Claire deflates at that, a sadness flitting across her face that makes every part of him ache. She places a hand carefully on his chest, palm flat against his bare skin as though she’s mapping him out in her mind, memorizing every detail. “I know you still think about Lizzie all the time,” she states. Her fingers trail over his heart, so gently. “I know she’ll always be first here. But she’s gone, Dwight. And you can’t change that, no matter how many other girls you save.”

Dwight reaches up to cover her hand with his, her fingers so small beneath his own. “I can save other parents from going through what I have,” he tries to explain, needing her to understand. He knows she does, academically, but the broken expression on her face is anything but accepting. “I can help people, Claire.”

“Not if you’re dead.” Her voice cracks, fingers trembling under his.

Dwight leans forward to rest his forehead against hers, counters gently, “This town needs me, just like it needs you.”

“And what about me?” She pulls back to look at him, half fury and half desperation. “What about what _I_ need?”

He kisses her in answer, because he has no words to satisfy her.

She answers with a fire he hadn’t anticipated, arms locked around his neck as though tying him to her, mouth almost violent where she

He hits the bed and yelps, broken bones making themselves known, and Claire pulls back instantly, realization on her face. She places a hand on his chest as he reaches for her, holding him back. “You’re hurt,” she states, almost guiltily.

Dwight growls, grabbing for her again, but she remains steady. “I don’t care,” he hisses.

“Well I do!”

That hits him hard.

“I need you,” she whispers. “I need you to be _here_ , Dwight. Things are getting insane, and you’re not going to be able to save everyone.” He pulls back, sitting on the edge of the bed, but she tugs on his arm insistently. “You’re _not_.”

He looks at her, all fire and fury and it kills him, that he can’t be what she needs.

“What’d’you want me to say?” he asks, carefully even. “This is my job, Claire. There are risks, but I’m not giving it up.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.” She tilts her head, an almost pleading look on her face. “Just… be more careful. _Please_. Not for you, hell, not even for me, but… the longer you stay alive, the more people you can help.” He hates her for saying it, hates the look on her face like the words physically pain her. So he nods, laying down gingerly beside her, because he can’t stand to have this conversation anymore.

She shifts, lays her head on his shoulder and rests an arm carefully across his stomach. “You never talk about her, you know.” Her voice is quiet, tentative, lacking its usual confidence. He knows how hard she works to keep from psychoanalyzing him, to separate work from her personal life, and usually he’s grateful for it.

Occasionally, though, she pushes him. Even more rarely, he lets her.

Her fingers trace patterns along his chest, graze from one scar to the next. All he can think is that there should be one more, one that his daughter took for him. He twines trembling fingers in Claire’s hair, can’t help wondering if she’d’ve been like a mother to Lizzie. If they’d’ve baked cookies, gone to school plays and ballet recitals and had as normal a life as was possible in Haven.

A hopeless anxiety builds in his chest, heart thumping wildly against her fingers as she soothes them around his bandages, trying to draw the panic out. There’s a hole there that Lizzie had left there, torn out of him, a void that Claire has tried so desperately to fill. So futilely. Usually, it doesn’t bother him, but on days like today the despair floods him so fully it’s a struggle just to breathe.

So he talks into the void, gives Claire a little hope to cling to for both of them.

“She loved to dance…”

**xxx**

_is this is all we get for living here?_   
_come fire, come fire_   
_let it burn and love come racing through_   


_i'm still alive_   
_i'm still alive_   
_i cannot apologize_

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love =)


End file.
